


Una Viudita

by Thimblerig



Series: On the Decks of La Sirena [7]
Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Episode: s01e06 The Impossible Box, F/M, Fic and Podfic, Fluff and Smut, Missing Scene, Podfic, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Smut, they are all a bit broken but they try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: You have no illusions about what this is.You’ve known each other a couple of weeks: you can’t say you’re friends exactly, Insomniacs Book Club notwithstanding. But Agnes is cute, and smart, and dryly funny, and that is something to build on.You wonder if she will be timid, virginal, wanting to be unwrapped like layers of tissue around something infinitely breakable and precious. You wonder if she wants to be taken like a lick of flame...
Relationships: Agnes Jurati/Cristóbal Rios
Series: On the Decks of La Sirena [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634554
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58
Collections: Podfic Bingo





	1. Fic

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long, long while since I wrote anything smutty and I'm feeling a bit weird. Please be gentle...?

* * *

Click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1J8VhR-w9bXWLn5EIL7J0n1AyyJBN4w2K/view?usp=drivesdk) to stream or download :-) 

* * *

You have no illusions about what this is.

You’ve known each other a couple of weeks: you can’t say you’re _friends_ exactly, Insomniacs Book Club notwithstanding. But Agnes is cute, and smart, and dryly funny, and that is something to build on.

You wonder if she will be timid, virginal, wanting to be unwrapped like layers of tissue around something infinitely breakable and precious. You wonder if she wants to be taken like a lick of flame. For now the small woman links her fingers with yours, leading the way to your own rooms. You can only shelter her for a little while - your broken pieces shift too much not to draw blood if she stays. But she is scared and grieving, and if she wants to drown inside a willing body - you can relate. And this thing, at least, you can provide. 

Once inside she barely glances around the sparse furnishings, the one shelf of knick-knacks, but tugs you down onto your dun-coloured sheets, straddling you, the weight of her solid and hot on your loins. With her hands curled at the nape of your neck, her thumbs stroking the hinges of your jaw, she stares down at you unspeaking. Not a flicker in her soft blue eyes, she holds your gaze for long moments and your breath catches, raw terror at the prospect of being _seen,_ of your broken pieces _on display_ flooding your veins. Something changes: her wispy eyebrows shift and her hands move, threading through your hair as if to cradle you, infinitely soft. Agnes kisses you, clumsily, bumping noses and clashing teeth. “Sorry, sorry,” she mutters, trying to pull away. “It’s been a wh-”

Your hands cup her round hips, warm through the soft material, and the trembling that has been part of her for hours startles into a great inrushing breath. Oh querida, cariño, it _has_ been a while. You smile up at her and she kisses you again, warm and wet and gaining in purpose, and your hips (mind of their own, the dogs) buck into her. Her thighs tighten around you and the next time her flickering tongue hits your body like lightning her body moves with you, dancing, riding.

Her smooth skin is warm as your hands slip under her black singlet. Skin goose-pimples as you trace the line of her back and when you palm her soft belly and cup her small, sweet breasts she sighs against your mouth, nibbling your lower lip and smiling when you shudder under her. One of her hands pulls out of your hair and you try not to whine, but it is only so that she can trace your bristled throat, dip into the salt-wet notch between your collar-bones, touch your chest and trail down your ribs - so punctiliously careful to avoid old scars, still sensitive around the broken places - and when she fans her fingers over the skin of your belly it is so hot and bright and sweet that you take a deep breath then nudge her hip firmly with your hand.

Worry flares in her eyes; she tenses, not in the good way. “I’m close, preciosa,” you whisper. “Don’t want to come too soon and end the night.”

She nods stiffly and eases off you, lying on her side. You kiss her forehead and her eyelids, and her lips again, long and sweet. When she sighs, and relaxes, you dip down to her breasts, kissing and suckling over bare skin and through the soft cloth. A low hum is all the sound she makes, drawn out and barely audible; her hand on your side grips, releases, grips again.

Agnes taps a finger against your skin and you look up.

“Do you have a prophy-” she asks.

“Bedside table,” you say back and nod the direction. She rolls over and almost falls off the bed reaching for the drawer and the little round pot the EHH insists on keeping there (ever hopeful, the bastardo prepotente, you’re just grateful he hasn’t stuffed the room with fake flowers). She squeaks when you haul her back - you giggle and feel the tips of her breasts tickle your chest when she laughs back.

(A good friend, long ago, told you that sex is always going to be a bit ridiculous and it’s best to lean in. It was good advice.)

Propped up on one elbow you dip a couple of fingers into the goop inside and tuck them down your pants, blinking sharply as the nanites in the gel flare icy and slither around and about what a friend (yes, that one) used to call the ‘downstairs areas’. (Bonus, it cools you down enough you can think a little straighter - this night isn’t about _you.)_

When you offer her the pot she doesn’t take it, just eases the waist-band of her sleep pants down with her thumb and looks at you. Not one to turn down an invitation you slip your hand down into her warmth and feel her twitch against you as the nanites activate. And, lingering, you feel the heat return and her languid sigh when your fingers start to move. After a breath she folds her fingers around yours and adjusts the circling movement. Lovely girl.

With a snap, the waistband of your sturdy pants springs open, and the zipper follows. Relief. Her hand hovers near the divot of your hip, but you pause, take her hand and kiss the fingers, and set it to roam elsewhere. (Oh, your cock _wants_ her hand on it, really, really, really. But you will fall to sleep after, sinking like a drowned man and - this night isn’t about _you.)_

After a long, honey-sweet, honey-sticky time you roll on your back. You kicked off your pants a long time ago and so did she, one leg of them still caught on her foot as she twists on the bed. She doesn’t climb on you again, though, but tugs you onto your side to face her, and the act of entering her becomes a mess of tangled limbs and muttered apologies and - _coming home_ \- and she is trembling again, or you are, and - _warm_ \- and dancing in just the best way and -

Agnes comes without a sound, her face crumpling as if to hold back tears. You spend soon after, the spasms of her body calling it out of you.

You would hold her all night if you could, wretch that you are you would shelter her. As sweet weariness drags you down you smile at her half-lidded eyes and curling mouth. Your hand reaches to touch her cheek.

She stiffens.

You draw your hand back. “... Agnes?”

But she is already drawing away, tugging her singlet down from its tangle about her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she says rapidly. “I - I don’t know, I should probably go. It’s not. You.” She sits to tug on her soft sleep-pants. “You were so lovely. Better than I.” She takes a breath and stands, looking anywhere but you.

“Are we good, Agnes?” you ask softly, levering yourself upright but staying on the bed, keeping your movements small and quiet.

She nods convulsively.

At the door she turns, rumpled and golden in the low light. “You are _so lovely,”_ she says, and thumbs the latch, and disappears.

“... What?” you ask the silent room.

Oh... _shit._ Maddox, the dead guy, was he more than her mentor? Were they _… together?_

Tacky, Cris, even for you, fucking the lady while her lover’s body cools in the freezer. The mermaids on your shelf stare at you in reproachful silence and they are right to do so. _She didn’t say,_ you try to explain. _Did you think to ask?_ they reply. You take a deep breath of cool air and tell yourself you can work it out, you can talk in the morning, you can -

 _Save what you can save,_ your old Captain murmurs in your ear.

“Piss off, old man,” you tell him.

It doesn’t help.

You wish you could sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // _downstairs areas_ \- I borrowed this from morituritesalutant’s fic Atlas Smiles/The Glass Tiger/Seven Day War, because the phrase always makes me giggle.
> 
> // The Spanish:
> 
>  _una viudita_ \- "a little widow" - Rios sings a song in a later episode with a little widow in it.
> 
>  _querida, cariño_ \- two ways of saying "dear" (I checked, and cariño seems to take that ending even for girls)
> 
>  _preciosa_ \- "precious"
> 
>  _bastardo prepotente_ \- "pushy bastard"
> 
> As ever, if a native Spanish-speaker feels I have erred, please feel free to let me know and I'll tweak it.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this.


	2. Podfic

* * *

Click [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1J8VhR-w9bXWLn5EIL7J0n1AyyJBN4w2K/view?usp=drivesdk) to stream or download :-) 

* * *

Format: MP3  
Length: 10:11  
Size: 11.59 MB

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at the beginning and end in "Arroz Con Leche". In the way of popular children's songs it has a number of different versions. 
> 
> The variant I used, paraphrased, goes "Rice with milk, I wanna get married! To a little widow of the capital, who knows how to knit, how to embroider, how to put the needle in the holder." (Or possibly, "the steeple in the belltower". Eh. I suspect it's an allusion to sex, either way.) "With _you,_ yes, with _you,_ no. With you, my life, I will marry."
> 
> The reply at the end: "I am the little widow, the daughter of the King. I want to get married but I don't know to whom. With _you,_ yes, with _you,_ no. With you, my life..."
> 
> Programs Used: Audio Evolution; Logopit Plus; Music Editor
> 
> Cover Image: Pixabay stock images
> 
> Music/FX: Home recording

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[FANART] Una Viudita, by Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24202678) by [Regionalpancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regionalpancake/pseuds/Regionalpancake)




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